


fight fear for the selfish pain

by longlivetheprat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longlivetheprat/pseuds/longlivetheprat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't have much, but they have this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fight fear for the selfish pain

**Author's Note:**

> un-betaed

They are rough movements and seeking hands in the darkness. They are the slick slide of skin, the wet touch of lips, muffled moans. This is what they have.

Here Bucky feels safe. He is not tormented by dreams of enemies or of friends who may become so. He is free. He hears his freedom in the creak and groan of the bedsprings. He feels it in the sweaty strands of golden hair he desperately grasps as he is banged into the headboard, again and again and again. This is what he has.

Afterwards, he tucks his head into Steve’s neck and listens to him fall asleep. But Bucky lies awake. He thinks about today. He thinks about the mess hall, how Steve strode in, every bit the all-American hero, and casually took his place beside him, like there was no question he’d be anywhere but by his side. He thinks of the way Steve had reached out his hand, just a little, and his wounded face when Bucky had pulled his own back quickly, as if burned.

Steve is not little anymore, he knows that, but sometimes Bucky still sees in him the short, scrawny kid from Brooklyn who got hurt more than any kid should have to, inside and out. Bucky had never been the reason for that hurt. Never until today.

It seems he has only just closed his eyes when the bugle sounds. He doesn’t have to feel beside him to know Steve’s gone. He goes through the chore of waking up, enjoying the privacy despite the old routine.

He joins Steve halfway through his run. Bucky never understood why Steve ran. He was genetically modified to be strong, fit, healthy. He didn’t need the exercise.

(“Can’t let the others think I’m slacking off just because they put some fancy chemicals in my veins,” Steve had said once when he’d asked, winking.

“They would still respect you,” said Bucky as if Steve didn’t know.

Steve smiled, bittersweet. “No, they wouldn’t.”)

They kiss against the shed at the three-quarters mark, like always, and, like always, Bucky pulls back before it goes further, steps away from Steve’s searching hands, glancing side to side.

Like always, they finish the run in silence.

The mess hall that day is more crowded than usual. Bucky thinks maybe if he touches Steve’s hand – brushes, really, barely that – no one will know. It’ll just be a simple gesture, an accidental stroke, lost in the crowd.

He pulls his hand back. No. Not yet. He glances up. Steve is looking away. Bucky breathes.

They strip their clothes in the darkness, leave them in a sopping, mud-streaked puddle on the floor, bite and lick and grapple wherever they can reach, tasting salt and blood and desperation. They’ve been waiting for this all day, the both of them. Bucky is on his hands and knees, and Steve takes him, owns him, possesses him, and Bucky can’t quite turn back and see, doesn’t have the energy, but he knows Steve is beautiful like this. Beautiful and free and golden, in all the ways Bucky is not.

They fuck hard and fast, and they come together, biting into their hands to stifle their moans. Later they cling to each other, sleeping intertwined as if to ensure they wouldn’t be twisted apart even in their dreams. Nobody would dare, they know it. They are safe here. They have this.


End file.
